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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602772">be careful (my darling)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnomad/pseuds/cnomad'>cnomad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cnomad prompts [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>9-1-1 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, First Kiss, Getting Together, Injured Evan "Buck" Buckley, M/M, POV Eddie Diaz, Post-Season/Series 03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:40:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnomad/pseuds/cnomad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a joke really—Eddie's a firefighter, he should know what to do. But hanging upside down in his truck, his ears still ringing from the crash, all Eddie can focus on is the steadily growing bloodstain blooming across Buck's white shirt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cnomad prompts [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>582</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>be careful (my darling)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The title comes from the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1TSiB9OuVM">Sky Full of Song</a> by <i>Florence + the Machine</i>.</p><p>This fic was written to fill a tumblr prompt from two anons who asked for: “If you die, I'm gonna kill you."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t know what to do.  </em>
</p><p>It’s a terrifying sensation for Eddie to have. He’s a former army medic, an LAFD paramedic, and at this moment he is frozen with the understanding that he doesn’t have a single clue for how to get them out of this. Because they’re trapped—he and Buck, they’re hanging upside down, the roof of his truck precariously close to their heads where it’s crushed above (below?) them. Through the broken windshield he can see the car that crashed into them on its side, steadily leaking gasoline. The smell is toxic and the Santa Ana winds are pushing the stench into his truck. It’s making him loopy while his ears are still ringing from the airbag deploying only seconds before. </p><p>And Buck is bleeding. </p><p>He hadn’t been sure at first—had hoped, maybe, it was something else. Maybe oil from the engine, or Buck’s spilled coffee, but no. It’s thick and dark and red and it’s staining the white of Buck’s t-shirt, a blossoming poppy spreading out across his side and up his chest. </p><p>“Buck,” he hisses, his throat raw. He must have been screaming earlier. He doesn’t remember doing so but it must have happened because his throat feels like it’s on fire. “Buck, move. We gotta get outta here.” </p><p>He just doesn’t know how. </p><p>The cab of the truck is compressed, crushed under the weight of the body of the truck that is steadily pressing down on them. He had tried to unbuckle himself but it’s stuck—twisted in some unnatural fashion that won’t allow the button to depress. Eddie knows that he has a couple tools in his glove box that would help them. He’d bought them all after he’d been on the scene of a couple grizzly car accidents. So he knows, just out of reach, he has a combined seat belt cutter and window breaker, a flashlight, and a fucking flare gun if needed. </p><p>Not that he would now, in broad daylight, when he’s sure a dozen strangers on the sidewalk have already called 911—but it’s <em> there</em>. He knows it is and he just—can’t—fucking—reach—</p><p>“Buck!” </p><p>He slams his hand on the dashboard and finally, <em> finally</em>, Buck startles. The noise seems to drag him out of whatever haze he’d been stuck in since the crash only—fuck, how long had they been hanging there? Where were the first responders? But Buck is staring at him, his eyes wide and frantic. </p><p>He says, confused, sounding scared, “Ed’ie?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie says, relief washing over him. He stretches his right arm across the cab and cups his hand to Buck’s cheek. He is cold and pale—so much more pale than normal—and Buck presses into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah, buddy, I’m here. We’re okay. But—buddy, I need you to reach into the glove compartment, okay?” </p><p>If Buck understands him, hears him, Eddie can’t tell. Instead, Buck’s body goes limp, his face pressing heavily into Eddie’s hand. If not for the seatbelt that is strapped across his chest Eddie knows Buck would collapse onto the ground below them. </p><p>It sets a new wave of panic through Eddie. </p><p>He tries to reach out with his other arm, he wants to cup Buck’s face with both his hands, but he can’t fucking reach—his left shoulder seems pinned by something. The frame of the truck bent unnaturally, or the seatbelt that’s locked into position to keep him safe, he can’t tell. All he knows is he can’t hold onto Buck the way he wants, with all of his body. </p><p>Eddie’s heart is racing as he taps against Buck’s cheek, the panic rising in his voice as he says, “Hey—hey, Buck, buddy, stay with me. Okay? I need you to stay awake and do this one thing, then we can get out of here. You just need to grab my escape tools from the glove box. I can’t reach so you have to do it, okay? Okay?” </p><p>The gentle tapping seems to reach him and Buck hums but his eyes are still closed. Eddie can see where the blood is sliding up his neck from beneath his shirt and trailing along his jawline. He nuzzles his cheek against Eddie’s hand and slurs, “‘m’tired.” </p><p>This wasn’t supposed to happen and Eddie still doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>It feels like his heart is in his throat, this immovable lump that’s making it difficult to swallow. It’s a beautiful day outside—he can see the sun reflecting off the crushed metal of the car in front of them; can spot Chris’s surfboard split in half on the road. They were supposed to be picking Chris up from school, they were going to go to the beach, Buck was finally going to get to see Chris surf. It had taken them well over a year to get to a place where they could make an impromptu beach trip—where Chris didn’t need a therapy session to prepare, where Buck didn’t need anxiety medication to calm his nerves, where Eddie didn’t feel like he might drown in his concern for the two of them. His two boys who were scarred by the tsunami for so very long. </p><p>But they’d been trying. Slowly and surely, they’d started at the pool only wading as far into the shallow end that Chris could stand. Then the refurbished pier, where the ocean was visible and terrifying but far enough away that they could turn their back to it. Until they’d finally stepped onto the beach, that very first time, the three of them wrapped up around each other. Chris didn’t let go of either of their hands for the entire visit. </p><p>It had taken months but they’d made it: Chris was excited about surf lessons again. Buck would answer the door in his board shorts practically vibrating with excitement to get to the water. And Eddie was blissfully relaxed: ready for whatever adventure the day would bring. </p><p>He hadn’t expected <em> this</em>. </p><p>Chris is probably still at school waiting for them. How long has it been? Does he think they’re just caught in typical LA traffic? Or has it been long enough that he’s started to get nervous, get scared? Has he had to find his teacher, his eyes big behind his glasses, terrified because Eddie and Buck aren’t<em> there </em> to pick him up like they promised?</p><p>Eddie wants nothing more than to hear Chris’s voice in that moment. He wants to grab his phone and call him, assure him that everything’s going to be okay (because it <em> is, </em>Eddie can’t allow himself to think otherwise not even for a minute, Buck and Chris need him to be strong), but his phone is gone. Lost somewhere into the crush of steel and aluminum. He’d dropped his phone into the cup holder when they’d gotten into his truck just like he did every other day he climbed into the cab. In that moment, the seatbelt practically cutting into his belly, he swears he’s never going to do that again. </p><p>He feels impotent, helpless to do anything, and that fills him with a flood of anger. He doesn’t want to be here, trapped in this fucking truck, hanging uselessly upside down while his son is alone and scared and Buck is bleeding—fucking bleeding all over everything, and he’s so quiet and still and tired and it is exhausting, everything about this is exhausting and Eddie—</p><p>“I don’t care,” Eddie says, his voice hard. He knows he should be kind, should be gentle, but his hand slides back and his fingers dig into the back of Buck’s neck. Buck gives a weak little whimper and it’s like a stab to his chest but he doesn’t stop. Can’t even if he wanted to. “I don’t fucking care, Buck, so wake up! Wake the fuck up because if you <em> die</em>, I’m gonna kill you.” </p><p>He tightens his grip on Buck’s neck and shakes, just a little, and then Buck is blinking up at him. He looks exhausted, like all the energy has been drained out of him—and maybe it has, Eddie thinks, his gaze flickering to the puddle of blood that has pooled on the roof of his car—but he scrunches up his nose and watches Eddie through lidded eyes. </p><p>“I’s’okay,” he says. Buck laughs and it sounds wet, it sounds like it hurts, and his lips look redder than normal and Eddie is resolutely not thinking about the fact that it’s probably more blood. He can’t allow himself to consider it. Buck reaches out, weakly, and brushes his fingers against Eddie’s shoulder. “You’ll b’okay.” </p><p>It’s so fucking unfair. </p><p>“No, I won’t,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. He sounds hysterical even to his own ears. He doesn’t know if he’s crying at the prospect of losing Buck, his best friend (maybe more, but he’s never gotten the chance to do anything about it, and oh God, he thought they had more time), or if it’s just the flood of adrenaline rapidly seeping out of him. It’s weird to cry like this—his tears are slipping up the bridge of his nose and sliding down across his forehead, getting lost in his hair. “Chris <em> needs </em> you. I <em> need </em>you. So fucking wake up and open the glove box!” </p><p>He doesn’t know what it is—if it’s the way his voice breaks over the word need, or if it’s the mention of Chris, but Buck’s gaze suddenly looks focused. It’s not quite as bleary, not as dazed. He’s still deathly pale, an ashy tint to his hue, but he looks determined. </p><p>Eddie watches, still crying, as Buck pushes himself forward. Buck doesn’t make a sound. Eddie’s not sure how he manages it—he can see how the movement must be pulling at his wound, how his shirt is clinging to his chest from the gush of new slick blood, and he knows it must hurt. But Buck has his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his brows furrowed, and he is opening the glove compartment and searching, blindly, until he is pulling the tool out triumphantly. </p><p>Eddie would kiss him if he could reach. </p><p>They pass the tool between the two of them, careful—so careful—not to drop it, and then Eddie is breaking the window (this is familiar, he knows how to do this instinctively, hitting the glass where he’ll be able to push most of it out without dealing with any shards of blowback) and slicing his seatbelt. He’s prepared for it but he drops with a thud, his shoulder crashing against the crush of metal beneath him and he lets out a shout. </p><p>“Shhh,” Buck hushes from where he’s still trapped. “Shh, i’s’okay.” </p><p>It’s difficult, turning over in the cramped cab and getting himself onto all fours. His palms are cut by the broken glass and his knees are digging into the crushed metal of the roof of his truck—fuck, he still had three more years of payments left on this thing, he’s going to have to eat the loss—but the world is suddenly up right again. He shuffles forward and presses his fingers to Buck’s pulse, thready and weak. </p><p>“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he says, his voice hoarse. </p><p>He is stripping off his jacket and pressing it to the wound on Buck’s side. He still doesn’t know what caused it, how big it is, but it feels good to finally be doing something with his hands. To feel like he’s helping. </p><p>He knows, really, that he should wait. That the first responders must be on their way, that they’ll have the jaws of life with them, that Buck needs a neck brace and a backboard and so much more than Eddie can offer him right now. But he can’t leave him like this—can’t leave him trapped upside down in this broken truck bleeding to death while the gasoline from the other car is still sliding closer to them. It would be so easy for things to go wrong. And Eddie has already dragged enough dead bodies from flaming wreckages. He’s not going to let it happen to Buck too. </p><p>His free hand slips up to cup Buck’s face, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. Buck looks less steady now: his forehead is scratched up and the blood from his wound has dripped down the left side of his face. He looks dazed again, like he wants to give in, but Eddie is forcing him to hold his gaze. His thumb sweeps under Buck’s eyelashes and Eddie darts forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Buck’s jaw. </p><p>“Brace yourself against me, okay?” he whispers. “I’m gonna cut you loose and then I’m gonna pull us out. I don’t want you to fall, you have to keep yourself up, okay?” </p><p>Buck looks like he wants to crash right there, wants to give up, but Eddie won’t let him. He shakes him again, just a little, and keeps his voice firm. “We gotta go pick up Christopher. Okay? So brace yourself.” </p><p>It’s small and hesitant, but Buck nods, his hands raising sluggishly to press down against Eddie’s shoulders. </p><p>He’s brutally efficient in his next moves, using the belt cutter to slice through the belt fabric. He keeps his other hand on Buck’s side still holding the jacket (now soaked with blood) to the wound and presses his injured shoulder up against Buck’s to support him as his body weight drops. He’s quick to lower Buck down, Eddie shuffling backwards towards the window he’d broken open, and he is dragging Buck with him. He knows Buck’s back will be cut up, that it must hurt, but all Eddie can think is that they have to get out of there, they have to get to Christopher, they have to—</p><p>And then they’re free. </p><p>The California sun is shining down on them and the sky is a bright, brilliant blue. It’s so much louder now, outside of the terror-soaked stillness of the cab—he can hear people crying and shouting, can hear the blaring of sirens approaching. Eddie has no idea how long they’ve been there, it feels like forever but it can’t have been. Must have only been minutes. </p><p>Buck is staring up at him, his blue eyes blown wide. Eddie is bent over him, Buck’s head cushioned in his lap, and it’s like they’re still in the truck with Eddie right side up and Buck upside down. And then a hand is wrapping around his, fingers slipping between his as they press against the bloody jacket, holding it in place, and another hand is reaching up, up, up to push back his hair. It feels wet and dirty, and when Buck pulls away his hand Eddie can see that it’s red with blood—his blood, probably—but he doesn’t care. </p><p>And then he’s leaning forward and catching Buck’s lips with his. He tastes of metal. It’s just a moment—tender and fleeting and soft—and then there are other hands pulling him away, men and women with comforting voices and wearing familiar blue uniforms. There are lights shining in his eyes, questions being asked, prodding fingers dancing across his collarbone that they tell him is probably broken and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all.</p><p>Buck is alive, <em> they are alive</em>, and the first responders are here, and Eddie can finally rest. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked this story feel free to follow me at <a href="http://cinematicnomad.tumblr.com/">my tumblr</a> where I post way too much and sometimes fill fic prompts and make gifsets. Leave your thoughts in the comments below and thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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